When Two Worlds Collide
by baby-new-year
Summary: AU, genre will change from 'Friendship' to Romance,' and the rating may rise. They were both changed by the Capitol. Changed, but refusing to be broken. What happens when their lives innertwine?
1. Chapter 1

A/N- Hi, everybody. Sooo, I have noticed that, lately, most of my stories come from either internal debate or dialogue. I don't know how to get rid of the internal debate thing, so I hope you all like that. : ) But, I am challenging myself to do two things in this story:

One- Write for a fairly unpopular pairing (I haven't found any with this pairing, by the way).

Two- Lessen dialogue and see how my characters will communicate.

And as you probably know, I LOOOOOVE writing AU and romance. So, I have combined those two genres with the challenges. Call me crazy, but… this an AU romance about Cato and Lavinia!

Yeah, maybe I am crazy… Oh, well. I hope you enjoy it. I thought chapter one would be good in Lavinia's point of view. Tell me in a review (hint, hint) if you want me to do some chapters in Cato's perspective. And by the way, the mutt scene did happen, but in this version Katniss and Peeta slipped off the Cornucopia, too, and Cato won.

Wow, that was longer than I meant for it to be. Hey, I'm doing Camp NaNoWriMo! Anyway, if you read all of that, write a review that contains the phrase 'majestic pickle unicorns' and you'll get virtual cookies. Seriously, I will literally get Peeta to make you all cookies. But since he is fictional, you will all get fictional cookies. Double fictional's make a real. Right? Anyway, all I'm saying is I want to know what you think of this. Quite honestly, I don't know what I think of the idea myself. One second, I love it. The next, I'm not too thrilled with the whole 'less dialogue' thing… but I guess it is because I'm just a naturally chatty person. : )

Chapter One

Does sleep always give off a false illusion of vulnerability? Of innocence? I know, for a fact, that I am not looking into the face of a vulnerable nor innocent person.

Of course he isn't; not only did this person commit horrific crimes in order to escape that arena, but he preformed those acts with such excitement. Eagerness about the Capitol and its twisted ideas. The very ones I ran from five years ago… Now, my inability to scream out every thought I have against them is the mark of my supposed betrayal. The real punishment, on the other hand, is not my forced silence against the Capitol, but rather being forced to looking after the least lucky each year, once they leave the physical arena. I have seen too many to ever think that they truly leave…

But still, none ever seemed to enjoy the Games so much as this one. His excitement is merely a mirror of the unfortunate truth; that to many, this is a way of life, something to be celebrated, even.

But, as the old saying goes, two wrongs don't make a right. The Gamemaker's selected me for an important job- or at least that's how they tried to mask the truth, that this is really punishment- and I need to preform it to the best of my ability.

Another familiar phrase pops into my mind, something that my mom used to say, back when I was really little. Even back then, at the age of six, I was different than the others. In late spring, my kindergarten teacher showed us all the initial fighting of the Games. They were being aired live, and it was our duty as citizens of Panem to watch. However, it was the first time I had watched them without my parent's right there to cover my eyes at the worst parts. Apparently, I was the only one who watched them that way, because, after about five minutes, I broke down crying. For the rest of the year, and even a while afterward, that was what I was known for. The others, even a few teachers, would continue to comment on that. And so one day, when I came home and told my mom about the things that the kids who I thought were supposed to be my friends were saying, she gave me one of the most important pieces of advice I had ever gotten. "You did nothing wrong," she reassured me, softly pushing my hair behind one ear. "But sometimes, and I want you to remember this; hurt people hurt others. Don't be a part of the cycle." OF course, I agreed. Back then, I was able to do so with words.

Now, fourteen years later, I get a big chance to not only refuse to give in to that cycle, but reverse it. I realize with a shock that doing so requires me to befriend the very kind of person I have always disliked. I don't think I have ever genuinely hated someone, though I despise the ideas that most people around me embrace.

I can't do that. But, at the same time, I did promise that, it given the opportunity to change things…

That solves the debate I'm having with myself, doesn't it? I have to at least try. And if I fail, well, what do I have to loose, anyway?

Over the next two weeks, there is plenty of time to think. Though I regret it, I consider not following through with my old promise, passing it off as just a silly little thing I agreed to when I was young and naïve. At one point, I'm changing my mind at least ten times a day. Perhaps it was destiny, or possibly sheer coincidence, but after sixteen days, I manage to stick with one decision, yes, for over two hours. Then, before I can change my mind yet again, his eyes slide open.  
Yesterday 3:01PM


	2. Chapter 2 (edited)

Chapter 2

A/N- So, I have a beta! I completely forgot to mention her in my earlier chapter's note, but thanks a million to Casey (HopelessAddicttoWriting)) for agreeing to put up with my insanity… I mean, thank you for beta editing. Oh, who am I kidding? I should say, thank you, Casey, for editing this and not calling 911 every time you think I could use a padded room and straightjacket. I'm sure that's quite often. : )

'Here it goes,' I think to myself as soon as I see those dark blue eyes open. 'Here it goes…'

Tentatively, I cross over into his field of vision. The second I'm closer, I can very clearly see that being physically awake doesn't necessarily guarantee a state of lucidity. But, since I can't say anything, I have to rely entirely on body language to communicate my curiosity and concern. Doing the only thing I can think of, I come even closer. Now three steps away, I am just close enough to make out the name that he is murmuring. First, it's just breathed out, emotionless. Then, a question. But I continue to move forward. Eventually, when I am only about half a step away, I get that feeling that someone is staring at me. Looking back, I see that his eyes are trained on my face. The name is repeated again, this time with insistence, as though the name is mine.

'No,' I want to say. 'No. I'm not Clove.' But I can't. Of course, I can't. I really do wish I could, though, as shaking my head doesn't quite quell the disbelief of my identity. Faster and faster, more insistently each time, I continue to shake my head. Oddly, despite my continuous protest, the thought that I am someone else, that I am Clove, seems to provide reassurance. So, for now, I can go along with it. It can't hurt, right?

Though, as is typical when waking up from a period of prolonged unconsciousness or, as in this case, a coma, he's asleep again after a few minutes. But right before, he reaches out and grabs my hand. The grasp sends tingles down my arm, and I'm not sure quite why. But, on my quest to keep my old childhood promise, I stay right there. During the next two hours, the same thing happens three times. Each time is a longer period of consciousness, which is a really good sign. After that mutt attack, well, none of the doctors or Gamemaker's seemed too hopeful. Some even said that this may be the first year without a victor.

Looking down at him, I only have one thought; 'Proved them wrong, didn't you?' One thing's for sure; he's a fighter. Maybe, just maybe, one day we could fight against the Capitol…

Wow, wait; what kind of a crazy idea is that? No, no way. That absolutely will never happen. It just makes no sense. But still, I can't pretend that the idea does not tempt me. It did in the past, and it does now, still.

But at the same time, know that we can't. My heart wants it, though my mind protests. I also know that I can't bring it up. I would hate to be the one responsible if someone else is punished for an anti-Capitol rebellion. The idea, if acted upon, would lead to nothing but trouble.

Though my brain knows this is wrong, I can't help but listen to my conscience as it tells me that silence isn't just the state of noiselessness. It tells me that not having an auditory voice doesn't mean that I have any excuse for not allowing others to listen. Forces speechlessness does not equal not having a voice; it just means I have to find a new way to be heard. Just as I did two weeks ago, it's a quote that helps me to reach a decision; actions speak louder than words.

So when the time is right, when we're both ready, when a plan is made, the answer is yes.

The only problem is that, as of right now, I'm the only one who sees any need to fight.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N- Sorry for taking such a long break. But thank you all so much for the comments and update alert subscriptions. They really mean a lot to me. Anyway, my updates for this fic will probably be every two weeks or so, most likely on Monday's or Thursday's. If there is any specific day that everyone works, I can see what I can do. Just let me know in a comment or PM.

By the way, I did something kind of fun with this chapter. I hid three song titles from 'Songs from District Twelve and Beyond' in this chapter. The first person to tell me what they are will get to choose a plot point for the next chapter. Please use a site account (or tell me your user name) so I can PM you. Good luck!

Chapter 3

"You're not Clove."

These words are the ones that hit me as soon as I walk in the following day. Something about the tone they were delivered in, perhaps the faint note of betrayal or disappointment, immediately makes me cringe with guilt. It isn't like I ever claimed to be, of course. But I never did anything to show that I wasn't. And it may not have worked if I did. Still, in order for the tiny, insubstantial wisp of a plan I developed to work, trust is necessary. And whatever bit of that I had managed to gain is now lost.

_"I'm sorry." _If I cannot audibly say so, forming the shape of the words is the least I can do. So I repeat the action, unable to think of anything else appropriate. Tears are flowing over both of our cheeks rapidly, eyes trained upon one another. It seems as though both of us have a massive amount of guilt, though for different parts of the situation we are in. Some day, this won't happen anymore. Some day, when the Games are abolished, no one will feel the way that these unfortunate winners so often do. The challenge will be making 'some day' come as soon as possible.

"I failed, didn't I?" Seeing as I don't answer in any way, he continues. "I messed up. If I didn't, CLove would be here. This is all my fault. There is a moment of silence before something shifts upon his face. A new expression, one I had only seen from the footage in the arena, takes over. It is the same one that caused so much intimidation in other competitors, yet twisted enjoyment in the Capitol's viewers.

"No, it is their fault. They did this. The Gamemaker's, Snow, the District rebels when they lost. It is because of all of them. And what are we?" Now, the intense glare is directed away from me, silently indicating that this 'we' does not include me. "Are we just pieces in this game? To be manipulated and transformed? As if it really is just a game. I guess that was the plan all along. Not that it was hidden, right?"

No, it wasn't. Not really. But in some ways, it was. At least, it was to us, and the citizens of our parts of Panem. Their eyes open only to a certain point before their vision becomes foggy. To them, the games are incredible when they are happening. Then, the next year comes around and the old Games are nothing to remember. They just want more. Same as us in the past. But now that we have a personal reason to, we know the truth. It is time for the system to stop.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N- I am most likely going to be updating more frequently the next few weeks, for two reasons. First, I am on spring break. Second, I am participating in Camp NaNoWriMo. It is a month-long writing challenge to write so many words in one month. My goal is 40,000 by the end of April. I am supplementing my main project's word count with fanfiction, so I'm most likely going to be posting more chapters, and maybe a few drabbles. Anyway, if you have any suggestions for this fic, I'd be glad to hear them.

Chapter four

That night is the hardest since our new victor has claimed the supposed glory. I'm not quite sure why I am the one he is tending to gravitate towards, but I am shocked to say that I like it. It almost makes it seem as though someone likes me here. It wasn't until tonight that I've noticed how much I need human interaction.

The neon lights of an evening in the Capitol glare through the windows. Given the light patterns, I assume it is around nine or so. Up until now, it's been a fairly good day. They are thinking of doing interviews in a week or so. They'd still be late, but several weeks earlier than it was originally thought we could do. It's kind of upsetting, in a way. Because after interviews, they go home. And this is the longest I've ever spent with one of them. But since he has been doing so well, they left us alone. For the next twelve hours at least, I'll be the only other one here.

We stay together quietly. Well, not that I have any choice, on my part. But the silence isn't unwelcome yet. Mostly he is just staring at me, as if studying my face, trying to place it from a memory.

We do come from the same district. But I have no memory of ever meeting. I guess we could have, when we were very young. But it seems as though we came from different areas. Still, even a small interaction from years ago could be enough.

Slowly, I feel a roughness and a warmth spread over my hand. With lots of pressure, his fingers enclose around mine. I squeeze back in response, holding for a minute. By the time I let go, it is later then he should be up. So I dim the lights, pull the blankets higher around him, and say goodnight in my own silent way. And that's when the trouble begins.

I soon fall into a reverie of watching. Before it can properly register, screaming fills the room. Jumping, I urgently attempt to shake him awake. But it's no use. In fact, it seems to only make things worse. At my touch, he tenses before franticly scratching at his own body. Droplets of blood appear along the long, jagged fingernail marks, and several of the bite marks that were just starting to heal split again. But still, every time I try to wake him, it just gets worse.

Movement causes one of the ripped bites to split deeper than it has been since the arena. Bright red streaks start flowing copiously, and the thrashing is still going strong.

What a ridiculous sight we would be, if someone were to walk in on us. Here I am, trying to physically restrain someone who is about double my weight and a good foot taller than me. Yet somehow, it works.

Slowly, our eyes meet. Once again, it's one name that he mouths when my face becomes visible. This time, I deny it. There is no Clove here.

Rather than offer the feeble condolences we both know won't help, I instantly turn to closing the freshly-open holes of flesh. Most will close naturally within a day or so. But the big one across the shoulder blade is obviously going to need to be stitched up.

I have only done this once, and it was in training, never for real. So I go about it as quickly as I can, flinching with every prick of the needle. But he stays calm and still, so at least it is over fairly quickly.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm here that is making it worse. Maybe I was wrong, maybe I don't really help at all. But as I turn to go, fingers once again enclose around my wrist with a desperate grip. They speak louder than the one whispered word can.

'Stay.'


End file.
